


Tattoos, French, and Bullets

by TheOneKrafter



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bullets, Drabbley, F/M, Flashbacks, French, Gen, German, Gotham City - Freeform, M/M, Medical Procedures, No Smut, One Night Stands, Tattoos, tattoo parlor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 03:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15810711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneKrafter/pseuds/TheOneKrafter
Summary: When a French American tattoo artist and Jason Todd meet again for the first time since they were kids, Gotham proceeds to implode on itself.(Hopefully not literally, but we wouldn't put it past the joker to figure something out.)under editing, tread carefully





	Tattoos, French, and Bullets

 

“Tais-Toi!” I shout, not lifting my eyes up from my work, muttering about connard and the need for more intelligent workers.

The buzz in my ears is familiar and almost comforting as my right hand steadily traces the design on my customer's skin. A big white dude, running with the Maroni family now, though a few other tats on his chest and his accent suggest he used to work for the Sullivans. Before Holiday kicked their collective asses, of course.

Odd though, that he wants a tat of a bat. Then again he’s drunk off his ass right now, damn that thick accent.

“-an’ then ‘e said, ‘Do bats even have balls?’, an o’ course bats was pissed-” He’s rambling, stupid rambling in fact. The kind he’d get fired for if his buddies weren’t also drunk as hell.

“Uh huh.” I hum, brows furrowing as I finish it up, then wipe the excess ink and blood. “You’re all done dude, lemme just get the clear bandage and you’ll be all set.” I inform him, and he stops his rambling, nodding quickly with a grin. If only he weren’t running with the crime families, such a nice face…

Peeling off my plastic gloves after I throw the wipe I’d been using to clean up the tattoo, I glide in my spinny chair towards the bandages, grabbing one with some med tape, idly humming.

It’s getting late, but I’m known to be open for a long while at night. Adventurous rich teens with fake IDs, drunk gang members, guys havin’ a bad day, I get ‘em all. Give them all ink, let them ramble, and always collect money up front.

Just normal in Gotham, though because I cater to so many crime organizations I’ve only gotta worry about unaffiliated robbers and the big guys. Joker, Riddler, Ivy, ect.

Penguin’s guys are fine though, seeing as I’ve got med training and my tattoo shop doesn’t only cater to tattoos. Now that had been a wild night, lemme tell ya. Not everyday you get offered lots of money to patch up some of that old guy’s men, at least the ones who got away.

“You can take this off in a week and a half, no earlier. Come back if it starts making puss or something, though I doubt it will.” I state, applying the tape and clear bandage, ignoring the way the dudes buddies are wiggling their eyebrows at him not so subtly.

The guy nods again, quickly and a little too eager, then when I’m done he pulls back on his dress shirt, missing a few buttons, and lazily throws his jacket over his shoulders. When he says something that sounds like a goodbye, hurriedly going towards the exit, I sigh.

“You forgot your tie, monsieur.” I say, balling up said item and throwing it at him when he turns around with a red face.

Yep, definitely would tap that beau piece of ass for a one night stand. If only he weren’t so… criminal. Yes, that’s the word.

All three of them leave, the faint jingle of their leaving causing me to sigh. My cashier just left, clocked out and ready to go have some fun with his boyfriend, leaving me to man the fort.

I shut my eyes, leaning back in my chair for a few minutes slowly dozing off…

The door jingles.

Lifting one eyelid I spot the man who enters, then open the other and lift an eyebrow.

“Welcome, take a look around. I’m sure you’ll find something you feel like getting permanently attached to your skin.” I tell him dully, vaguely gesturing to the designs on the walls, and the book on the front counter with more inside.

Odd, never seen so many grey hairs in one place. Fits him though, at least.

He smirks looking around, and I shut my eyes again despite being much more aware.

“You do all of these yourself?”

It's asked right next to me, and I take note that I didn't hear him walk this way.

I open one eye.

“Indeed. Few of the designs are from online, but I drew all of them myself to make sure I could do it.” I say, taking in a healing bruise on his jaw now that he’s closer. Mugging? Nah he's too fit for that. Gang shit? Closer…

“Draw me something then, doll.” He replies, pulling up a seat and sitting in it backwards, arms propped up against the back.

Damn, that sounds familiar. Who’s he reminding me of though-

“Shit, that you Todd? I thought you were dead.” I grumble, opening my other eye and getting closer to his face, suddenly seeing the similarity between the kid thug and this dude.

“What- Elaine? Damn, what's with the blue hair?” He says, looking both shocked and staring at my hair.

“What's with the grey streaks? Seriously dude, me and the others thought you'd got snatched up.” I say, poking his hair with a lifted eyebrow.

“Anyways, sure. I'll draw something.” I continue, rolling towards my desk and grabbing one of the sketchbooks and a pencil.

* * *

 

**Jason Todd**

When he walked into the tattoo shop, it was mostly out of boredom. He'd heard about some teens getting tattoos without their parent’s consent, a few other mutterings of getting patched up there after a fight with Bruce. He was curious, but mostly bored. He didn't feel like patrolling tonight anyways, not after his last conversation with Dick.

When he entered though, he was met with a mostly open space and a few chairs more towards the back for customers. Rows and rows of pinned up designs were on the walls, and the creator of them was-

Right there.

If he were anyone else he'd think she were sleeping, but she flinches when he door jingles, opening one eye to see who disturbed her.

She had blue blended into her hair, all of it pinned up save a few baby hairs. A dark grey tank top covers the majority of a tattoo on her, as he can see tree branches looping around her arms from the back.

At her suggestion he looks at the art more closely, noting the work that must have gone into each design.

He doesn't expect to know her.

Elaine Marquardt, a skinny American-French girl who had a tendency to start ripping people a new ass in French. They'd run with the same group of street kids, though she did have a dad. He vaguely remembers conversations about loan sharks being why she was in Gotham in the first place, debt keeping the two of them there.

They hadn't been super close, but there was always a sense of comradery among the kids on the streets of Gotham, that bond that meant you kept each other alive.

It felt so long ago, the time before he tried to steal Bruce’s rims.

But here was someone who knew him before Robin, still alive and kicking, drawing something in front of him as they banter about hair color, she herself wondering how his hair went from dark brownish red to black with a grey streak.

He could enjoy this, at least for now. Forget the fight he'd just got in with Dick, forget how his jaw aches like a bitch, and just talk to someone who gets him, or at least used to.

* * *

**Elaine Marquardt**

It's cool, talking to one of the kids I used to run with. Most of them are dead now, or working with a gang. Thank god we aren't broaching that subject.

“At least you turned out with a nice face, lots of people in Gotham just gotta deal with facial scars and stuff.” I state with a shrug, taking another swig of fire whiskey and passing him the bottle.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Says you, doll. Got plenty scars not on my face.” He says, running his fingers through his hair.

We moved from the shop to upstairs in my apartment. That way we don't get interrupted by customers or otherwise.

“Doesn't matter, means you're still good at dodging where it counts.” I wave my hand, barely drunk at this point.

“Says the pickpocket.” He replies, grinning.

“Not even relevant ami.” I state with a chuckle, taking the bottle from his fingers and having some more.

“I won't ask what you were doing the past few years, was probably illegal or out of my league anyways. I'm happy you're alive though, it's hard to keep friends in  
a city like this.” I say, leaning back on my couch next to him, arms behind my head.

It's silent for a long moment, then he laughs.

“At least you've stayed the same, doll. Happy you're still above ground too.”

* * *

 

We drank some more, watched a few movies, then suddenly it's morning and I'm lying alone on the couch with a note on my coffee table.

Smooth merde, I'll give Jason that.

‘Sorry doll, wouldn't do so well for me to crash at your place would it? I had fun last night, though not the usual kind when I leave notes like these if you catch my drift. Maybe I'll come around to your parlor some time, you've got good whiskey.

With love, Jason Todd.’

I snicker at the hearts he put around his name and toss the paper to the side, sitting up and stretching. Satisfying pops follow, and I only slightly regret sleeping on the couch.

Running my fingers through my hair I notice a certain someone left their jacket on accident as I stand up to change.

Yep, definitely stealing that.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed that! I wrote the first few chapters of this before I cleaned out my Fan.net account, decided I wanted to keep going with it.
> 
> Translations
> 
> Tais-Toi : Shut up  
> Connard : Shitheads  
> Monsieur : Sir  
> Beau : Fine/Beautiful  
> Ami : Friend  
> Merde : Shit/Poo


End file.
